


The First Pebble

by jarofclay



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternative Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:59:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3226679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarofclay/pseuds/jarofclay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akashi Seijuurou does not lose at his first Winter Cup.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Winning is everything, he asserts mentally. The shouts become whispers, the contours become sharper and it’s all clear, it’s all clear; any scheme is breakable. Winning is breathing; I don’t know defeat.<br/>Indeed, he doesn’t know it.<br/>He breathes in. Rakuzan wins.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	The First Pebble

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP of a long story about how Akashi gets better after the Winter Cup. Please excuse any ooc-ness in Akashi's character, because the story is not only canon divergent, but also based on a different take of his double personality problem.

_What I want is change_ , Seijuurou suddenly remembers himself saying to Shintarou once, _It’s not as though we have a problem now. It’s just that—_

He doesn’t know why that memory chooses to resurface now, but there’s no time to dwell on it as Tetsuya’s quick pass flies past his teammates and Kagami jumps from the free throw line boundless, as if wings have grown on his feet.

In the roaring cheers of the audience and the impatience steaming from his teammates, he feels a tension pulling inside him; like a rubber band, being slowly stretched too far, slinking towards the verge of a loud snap. It’s an uncomfortable beat in his ribcage, a distracting one; it jumbles his thoughts into an unquiet mess and it hampers his actions. He must get rid of it.

But when he turns around—it’s only a flash before it is vanquished by the anger, but he sees it—the _potential_. It passes him by, like the wisp of current in a tunnel that hints at a breach, and this time it comes in the semblance of a net, a string of joined movements orchestrated to fit into a greater plan that goes beyond his imagination; he sees it all through.

_Tetsuya_ , he realizes in a stupor. His lips mimic the name unconsciously, as he takes the scene in, no rush of colors escaping his gaze even then. Nonetheless, it’s almost too late to act, the delay of seconds hindering the necessary process of breaking through the scheme. It’s a close call that should have never been allowed.

Blood boils fiery through his veins as he leaps forward, dissecting and elaborating the information around him as fast as he’s capable to, while a familiar mantra slips into his mind naturally at the strike of turning tables.

_Winning is everything_ , he asserts mentally. The shouts become whispers, the contours become sharper and it’s all clear, it’s all clear; any scheme is breakable. _Winning is breathing; I don’t know defeat._

Indeed, he doesn’t know it.

He breathes in. Rakuzan wins.

 

* * *

 

At the final buzz, Rakuzan doesn’t smile, nor cheers. It heaves an unanimous sigh that relieves the pressure of a boulder from its tense shoulders. Another ordeal has been successfully overcome, the players think; not successfully enough, the adults evaluate. On his part, Seijuurou shares the thought and hardly minds the now, too busy wrestling against calculations of their weaknesses and projections of precautionary plans to put into action in the future in order to avoid any disgraceful close call such as this one. It’s not strictly about victory—winning is after all unavoidable. It’s about annihilation.

Through the relief, some manage to catch up on the emotional delay—from the benches a low ovation rises in a crescendo, and finally Koutarou concedes himself a gratiying fist in the air. The others too snap out of their trance, one by one, as if woken from a dream. Eikichi growls in excitement and Reo flips a strand of black air with a jaunty nod, taking his time to revel in the pride that comes with being unbeated winners.

It’s the pitiful sight of a stumbling Tetsuya that brings him back to the present, pressing hard the heel of his hands against the eyes. _What did you expect_ , Seijuurou thinks dispassionately. _What are those tears for, this time_ , he wants to ask. But Tetsuya isn’t crying. He lowers his hands and his eyes are rimmed with redness, but he isn’t crying. Kagami’s light punch on the arm makes him sway dangerously and they look at each other, exchanging soundless words. Guilt? Seijuurou wonders, regret? That would sound like Tetsuya and his foolish sentimentalism; but it’s not that either, it would seem. Not this time.

Chihiro, he notices as they line up for the final salute, is smiling. It’s not pretty; it reminds him of the past, of the sophistic bitterness witnessed in earlier years. Hyuuga Junpei stands in front of him without promises to share. Seijuurou promptly averts his gaze, uninterested. He catches Tetsuya saying something to Chihiro five players away from him, and he mentally chides the commentator for giving the last announcements over their words. When Tetsuya’s mouth stops moving, Chihiro isn’t smiling anymore.

When on his way to the bench Tetsuya calls his name, he’s not surprised. Tetsuya reaches his hand out, says in a strained voice, “Good game.”

There’s nothing different from the match against Shuutoku, except—nothing. Nothing and Seijuurou hates to repeat himself; but it was an interesting match of sorts, and he is in a gracious mood.

“You didn’t run away this time, Tetsuya. I shall praise you for that,” he says, breathy, ignoring the proffered hand. “However, the final result doesn’t change. You had one chance and you seem to have wasted all of your trump cards now. Not to say,” a curt nod to Kiyoshi, hopping on his good leg behind them, “you’re gonna leave your own uncrowned general behind. What’s in store for you in the future if not defeat?”

Tetsuya’s reactions used to have an engaging connotation, in a way. Seijuurou’s own best specimen of fruitless idealism, of resolution with no payback; yet, somehow, an endless source of surprise. But in exchange, Tetsuya doesn’t offer any verbal insight. His hand clenches into a fist before dropping back to his side, eyes watery and fingers trembling. With that, Seijuurou raises his chin and considers the challenge sealed. He’s already turning away in disappointment, no more time to spare for the losers when Tetsuya speaks up, voice clearer than he would have expected and head held high like the unbreakable creature he’s grown to be.

“We will see you at the Interhigh,” he says. Seijuurou walks away.

 

* * *

 

To Chihiro, he asks the question he hasn’t asked any other third year senior who’s come to hand in their resignation letter. Because Chihiro is different; and because for once, Seijuurou is genuinely curious.

“My reasons?” Chihiro shoves his hands in the pocket of his trousers and accompanies the gesture with a sarcastic curl of his upper lip. “I’ll leave that up to your speculation.”

Seijuurou sighs. “I see. A pity to see you go. I wish you good luck with your studies, and your basketball career—if you decide to pursue it, of course.” He peers at Chihiro’s face, looking for signs of an unspoken answer to that too; and what he sees there, flashing a grim shadow on the surface, is enough to make a safe assumption.

Seijuurou’s classroom is empty by now, and the round clock on the wall ticks away the seconds Chihiro keeps still beside him, silent as he files his resignation letter with the other members’.

Then he says, “I’m curious, though. If we had lost, what would you have done? Gouged your eyes out?”

Seijuurou idly taps the stack of papers on his desk and thinks of the first time he met Chihiro. It hadn’t been a long conversation, but it was enough to make clear that Chihiro isn’t the type to cede the right to the last word. The compensation for his remarkable lack of the right sort of resolve can be probably found easily in his overflowing cynicism and egotism.

“No loss was taken into consideration, Chihiro. Ever,” he answers dryly, thus encompassing the entire range of questions Chihiro could pose on the matter.

As if he had been waiting for such answer, Chihiro promptly scoffs. “Well then, I suggest you start taking it into consideration by next year.”

Seijuurou is amused, and underlines his opinion with a sardonic smile. “Is that a threat? Do you think we’re bound to lose without you as a trump card?”

“It’s not that.” Pensively, Chihiro tilting his head to the chalkboard, covered in white numbers and equations. “Would I have even played next year? Now that I’m… ‘dispensable’.”

“You say that as if your own failures are my very fault. I hope you realize that I taught you all you needed to excel. Indeed, you were fine with the team until just a while ago. Yet, at the first trial, you played disgracefully, and that was because of your own behaviour.” Something closer to paternalistic smooths his sharp tone, but not his words, as he continues, “You are a useful sixth man, but you lack resolve. You shun from your purpose, attaching yourself to your pride and forgetting that you yourself are weak. And potential matters little if you can’t turn it into reality.”

“I told you the first time, that’s not how I wanted to play,” Chihiro replies, his usually flat voice edged with some hidden emotion Seijuurou has no duty to care for anymore. “I like to play for myself.”

“It’s only practical that you follow your own principles,” Seijuurou agrees, aloof, momentarily leaving the pile of letters down on his desk. “Is this about Seirin, then?”

When Chihiro looks back at him, he does it as if he belonged to Seirin itself, an unmotivated defiance in his usually inscrutable eyes that leaves no insight on where it might stem from. Seijuurou finds it odd and tragically misplaced, and maybe a tad bit too familiar, when taking out the snarkiness. “Don’t you think they managed to put us in serious trouble there?”

“It’s true that they caught us by surpise at some point, but does that matter? Dynamism is one of our main skills as a team, we succeeded in catching up to it. And the final result… that was already decided since the start of the match.” Seijuurou’s arms cross over his chest as he leans against the desk behind him and slants his gaze towards the window, beyond which the late afternoon downs, bathing the room in no colors but a dull wintry gray. “Don’t mistake something surpassing my predictions for something going beyond my imagination. Nothing of what may happen on a basketball court will ever reach beyond that. And as long as it stays that way, we’re ready to face anything coming at us.”

“You have it all figured out, I get it. I can only take my leave, then.” Stepping back, Chihiro nods to himself, barely raising a hand in closure. “Goodbye, Akashi.”  

When he turns around without waiting for a reply, Seijuurou feels the need to add something else. There’s no rational justification to what prompts him exactly, whether it’s the sight of Chihiro’s back or the heavy air of finality of this meeting, because he does welcome Chihiro’s resignation with, mostly, indifference. So he decides to ignore the impulse altogether. But the pause in his own thoughts gives time to another kind of interest to arise.

“Chihiro, satisfy a curiosity of mine.” Chihiro stops at the threshold, flicks a glance over his shoulder and grants him one more second of attention before ultimately walking away from his high school basketball life. “What did Tetsuya tell you? At the end of the match.”

It’s been a week and a half from that day already, but for some reason Seijuurou expects Chihiro to not have to strain his memory to remember. Chihiro’s brows knit in a mild frown of surprise but the words flow out ready, with a shrug of shoulder and a disinterest through whose stretch Seijuurou sees through easily. “Pretty words,” Chihiro says with a shrug of shoulder. “Another annoying kouhai thinking he knows everything. Were you all like that in that school of yours?”

Once Chihiro closes the door behind himself, Seijuurou frowns slightly. The stack of letters he picks back up looks like the palpable product of a déjà-vù, despite the different circumstances; but this would be a ridiculous matter for him to feel… antsy over. He should smile at the vague irony, instead, of having to go through the same events all over again. Another proof of history’s cyclic nature: nothing has changed in the end, and probably never will.

Second thoughts are not something he’s acquainted with: excelling also means preventing them from showing up. But this time, there’s a dull nagging in the back of his head, suggesting him to look further into this one, not let it pass by. Any scheme is breakable, he had thought back then. The question is, does he want to break this one?

Suddenly, the spark of a week before makes a reappearance—it claws up his chest at the rhythm of his heartbeat and his fingers reflexively tighten on the papers, crumpling them along the edges—then, as it came, it dies out, with a long breath, and Seijuurou quickly smooths out the wrinkles with his thumbs, before carefully squeezing the letters between the textbooks inside his schoolbag.

Truthfully, this is idle thinking. After all, there’s only one significant thing and that is victory; to achieve it with the excellency that everyone expects him of, there are matters he must see to, now.

The team is in need of some adjustment.

 

* * *

 

Months pass quickly in the same circle of victories piled over victories, without a glitch in the well oiled machine that is the team he has molded to perfection. But Interhigh comes and, before Rakuzan has the chance to forget the restlessness of last time, Shutoku falls, and then Yosen does too, at the hands of the same enemy, who climbs in a slow ascent that looks too much like a replay of the past year.

So they meet again at the semifinals of the Interhigh, on the same court, and what Seijuurou feels initially is not restlessness, let alone excitement. It’s a brisk sort of resolution, a dry eagerness to wipe clean at all costs the irksome stain that has been marring for too long an otherwise perfectly smooth surface. For once, he doesn’t intend to proceed gradually. When a dangerous enemy appears on the horizon, it must be crushed before it knows someone is coming for it. And the head of Rakuzan’s hammer has but one place where to strike exactly.

But as the match goes on Seijuurou has to wonder, why it is always _him_ , always him defying all odds, and not abiding to his place? How could Seijuurou miss it again?

The scoreboard counts the seconds down to the last minutes and victory is not yet in the firm grasp of his team’s hands. It’s a foreign feeling on the tips of his fingers, the shoot of a ball that might not reach the hoop, a dribble that might be stopped by a nimble cut. He should have known better, he thinks at first, but then again, he did know better. He took all the precautions and installed all the safety nets that could be mustered up and there has never been a time when that was not plenty 'enough'.

But apparently, Seirin was never a stain; rather an indelible scuff, bound to spread until all the surface was cracked. Only now the fleeting sensation he hadn’t felt in months comes back, and it’s louder than before, so loud it almost drowns out the players’ shouts, the bouncing, the squeaks. By the time his last team plan is breached, there’s only one thing left to do. If his teammates can’t keep up with him against Seirin’s actions, if they can’t untangle themselves from Tetsuya’s scheming, there’s no reason to not turn his back on them and seize victory with his own strength. Anyone who endangers the path to victory should be eliminated by the equation, and they’re giving him no choice. He can’t count on anyone but himself.

An invisible pressure weighs on his shoulders and it’s not right, he thinks, it’s not supposed to be this way, because he cannot be less than absolute in the battles he fights.

_I must win, no matter what_ , he recites over the alien sounds. The crowd’s cheering is tuned out as he climbs to the apex of his concentration, _Winning is everything in this world, is everything, is_ everything _. I cannot let this happen…!_

But this time, after all, it does happen.

 

* * *

 

There’s a cacophony of shouting in and out of his head as he looks up with wide eyes at the scoreboard that blares in red lights the final score. His heart pumps blood to his heavy limbs so vehemently that his chest hurts. It can't actually be, rationality murmurs to him, but it is drowned out by a deafening ringing attacking his ears, increasing in volume to the point he can’t hear his own ragged breaths.

He glances down at the open palms of his hands, empty of anything to hold onto. _Contemptible_ , he thinks in growing humiliation, frown aggravating on his face, _I failed with my own hands. I failed, I failed I failed I failed_. Panic opens his eyes wide as they take in the loss, the audience rising in applauses, the loss, Seirin’s exultation, the loss _the loss_. A shiver runs down his back and he clenches his hands into tight fists, until his fingers leave crescent moons marks imprinted in his hot skin.

Then, in a wave, the sounds return.

He blinks, and a quiet stupor engulfs him; an inability to think of anything but the single second he’s living.

_I lost_ , he thinks in astonishment, and this time, he just can’t wrap his mind around the concept. What is going to happen now? He can’t say. In the silence of his own mind, he realizes he’s tired, terribly tired. Like never before.

An atmosphere of stark, palpable stillness surrounds him, as if the world has freezed over, turned into strings of cinematographic rolls unraveling about and he’s in the middle of the vortex, watching in mystification the succession of colored frames passing before his eyes.

Observing them, he reckons that there must something intrinsically intimate in witnessing a person’s highest and lowest; even more so when being part of the cause to both. And who knows if Kuroko is sharing that fleeting thought when he disentangles himself from the collective hug Seirin entraps him in in their fit of elation, and turns, the happiest and most bewildered grin Seijuurou’s ever seen him wearing dropping slightly, gaining a more uncertain tilt when his crinkled blue eyes fall on him. Why is that, Seijuurou needs to ask. Seirin is one step closer to being number one in Japan once again and the biggest fish in the competition has gone down. Isn’t that what Kuroko has always wanted? Is that the pity of a winner towards the loser?

And now Kuroko stands before him bringing an answer, and maybe it’s the fact that little about the situation feels real that allows him to face his opponent more collected and detached than he would have given himself credit for.

“Kuroko.” Seijuurou takes a deep breath, holds his chin high. “You won, after all. Well done.”

Kuroko doesn’t smile anymore—he rarely does when he’s complimented, anyway. “It was a great match. I’m glad we had the chance to play together again.”

A hand raises once more between them, open and steady.

“You sure are a stubborn one,” Seijuurou comments.

“It’s only polite, Akashi-kun.” Kuroko’s hand stretches further, compelling. “And I’m honestly tired of people ignoring my handshakes or the likes,” he adds, with an annoyed quirk in his breathless voice.

“Enemies don’t shake hands.”

“But friends do.”

After a long beat, Seijuurou replies curtly, “Exactly.”

Around him, Rakuzan players speechlessly hold themselves up against exhaustion, jaws taut in frustration and heavy breaths shuddering. On their side of the court, Rakuzan’s coach sits back down on the bench, covering his face with a hand. Seijuurou knows he should feel something he doesn’t feel yet, when the easiest—the only acceptable—sight to take in is Kuroko, standing in front of him, calm and demanding. The proffered fingers twitch in time with Kuroko’s eyebrows, as if wishing to curl into a fist and punch him in the stomach, and if it was any other situation, maybe Seijuurou would find it oddly comical. But right now, he’s too busy coming to terms with the fact that for the first time in a long, long time, he isn’t absolutely sure what to do next.

When the referee blows the whistle for the final line up, he seizes the chance with hidden relief. “I believe this is settled. We’ll probably meet again, Kuroko, so until then, goodbye.”

After that, he turns his back to Kuroko, and denies him any chance of a second glance.

 

* * *

 


End file.
